


The Fisherman's Dream

by Elefwin



Category: Samurai Warriors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elefwin/pseuds/Elefwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not letting go is a tricky thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fisherman's Dream

Motochika is dreaming, dreaming.  
He dreams that he had not left the capital, as was long due, lingering on the land so firm, so uncertain...  
“At me... Look at me,” he gasps, because the rhythm chosen is too hard, too fast for him as well, and the tight white body beneath him twists and arches like a wave...  
...or rather it does not, dreams Motochika, because he is holding it too tight, presses it with all his weight into the futon.  
“Look at me.”  
 _At me, not into your head, not at your ghosts, let the voiceless be silent now and here..._  
Mitsuhide is looking. His face swims like a reflection of the moon caught in Motochika’s palms – lips parted, eyes dark and wide, full of desire and wonder. His white body, strong and lean, lies ready, open – to everything, for everything.  
Even in a dream Motochika recognizes that look – the look of Akechi Mitsuhide about to make another headlong move, _no, you aren’t going anywhere, just this once stay that..._  
Mitsuhide smiles up at him.  
“I love you.”  
 _...ah, there we are._  
And because he has to – needs to counter these very wrong words, Motochika tightens his grip and utters something equally wrong...  
“You loved Oda too.”  
Blood rushes to his head, colors his world red, and he does not see Mitsuhide’s mildly surprised face. Hears his calm voice, though.  
“Yes.”  
Sometimes, even in a dream, when you play carelessly a string will break and sting you. The tune will break... and the balcony is too far away. Motochika lets his arms fall, limp and heavy, tries to pull away from this fine string of a body, needy... and still hard. He can’t.  
He just can’t.  
“Moto...”  
Ah. The very thing to shut them both up.  
Still hard and still so very reckless. Mitsuhide does not hold back – not a sound, not a thrust, powerful yet still... delicate. Delicate touches of cool fingers on his temple, on his shoulder, on another – _here, here, here,_ – indelicate moans, lewd. And right now, right here Mitsuhide is probably not thinking at all. But Motochika does, and the thought turns into an ugly sound in his throat, and that’s what it takes...  
Mitsuhide’s love is salty and bitter, like seawater.  
“But what of you?..”  
“Nothing.”  
He must be dreaming still – of stopping those wandering hands, and wrapping his tired arms around a body warm and pliant, and falling asleep with his face in Mitsuhide’s hair...  
...Motochika wakes in the dead of the night, alone, trying and unable to scream, because he’s been dreaming of fine strands of black hair twining, twining tight around his neck...  
Mitsuhide is standing by the window. His skin glows faintly in the dark, and the fine black strands stick to it in a bizarre meandering pattern. Motochika blinks, swallows hard. It is a long way across the room, either way.  
“You know,” Mitsuhide leans back, shivers slightly against a warm chest, rests his head on a shoulder he knows would be right there, “I would rather remember him than you.”  
In the dream Motochika feels sharp sting of a string breaking inside, feels the tides turn.


End file.
